POETRY

By Tamara Kreutz

When my hand finally braves the wilderness
between my legs, I find its oasis gone

—dry, a desert, and despite the distant thundering
inside me, no rain will fall upon this dry earth.

Our daugh­ter has sucked me to depletion,
but you ask my body to satiate yours.

Six-week post­par­tum checkup—doctor says
—I’m good to go, but I tell you he said two more weeks.

When the void within me finally opens to you,
your thrust impales me—so you pull out.

—I feel only a slug’s ooze
over dry, lich­ened rock,

when your tongue travels the valley between my legs
for the first time since my body broke apart.

I’m a grave­yard of buried orgasms
—haunted by ghosts of desire.

Months after her birth, I finally come. Breasts throb
in the vice of oxy­tocin. Milk rains down upon your face.

—The baby wakes before you’re done,
drives an eight pound wedge between us—

——she who is our love incarnate.

Photo by Maru Lombardo.

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.